“We should return shortly after dark,” Paolucci said to Cat. “Tell Maria I’ll be expecting my supper.”
“Si, señor.”
Blade gazed at the airboats. On three of them, seated in the platform chairs, were mercenaries.
“Let’s load up,” Paolucci instructed the other Directors.
As they had done on many occasions, the Directors stepped onto the airboats, four to a boat, and sat down.
Paolucci indicated the first boat with a jab of the Bowies. “On this one,” he said to the Warrior.
Blade entered the boat. Three Directors were sitting on the center seat, and one was in the front. He moved next to the Director in the front and took a seat.
Arlo Paolucci came on board, standing alongside the Warrior. He looked at Cat. “By the time I get back, I trust you will have found the other two Warriors.”
“We will find them,” El Gato assured him.
“That’s what you said five hours ago,” Paolucci mentioned. “Inspire your men to perform as if their lives depend on it.” He paused. “They do.”
“We will find them,” El Gato reiterated.
Paolucci, sat, positioning the Bowies between his legs.
“You still haven’t told me the reason you’re bringing my knives,” Blade noted.
“You’ll understand when we reach the Shrine,” Paolucci said.
“I can hardly wait,” Blade quipped.
Paolucci looked at the mercenary in the platform seat. “Let’s go.”
El Gato and the pair of mercenaries hastily removed the tie lines to the dock and the airboats were shoved clear. One after the other, the three engines turned over, and a minute later all three were bearing to the south at a rapid clip.
Cat watched the airboats fade into the distance, scowling.
“Is something wrong, sir?” one of his men made bold to inquire.
“There goes a man,” El Gato replied. “He deserves a man’s death.”
“What will the Masters do to him?” the guard asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I was told you’ve been to the Shrine,” the guard commented.
“Several times,” Cat said.
“What did you see?”
El Gato glanced at the private. “I haven’t seen the Masters, if that’s what you’re wondering. But I have seen their handiwork. It was inhuman.”
The mercenaries exchanged looks.
“How so?” one asked.
“I was sent to pick up the Director,” El Gato detailed. “He wasn’t at the Shrine dock, so I went searching for him. I found an altar, a marble slab—”
“An altar?” one mercenary repeated.
“Yes. And on it were the bones of a person,” El Gato said in a low tone.
“A freshly eaten person. Strips of flesh were hanging from the bones. It was horrible.” He paused, a faraway glint in his eyes. “But the worst part of it was the head.”
“The head?”
“Si. The Masters had eaten all of the body except for the head. They left it intact.” He stared absently at the dock. “I knew her.”
“Her?”
“A Director by the name of Carmen Gonzales. She went bad, and they ate her,” Cat said in disbelief.
“I’m glad I wasn’t picked to be an airboat driver,” one of the guards remarked.
Cat gazed to the south. He knew the airboats would alter course five minutes from the estate and turn westward toward the Shine. “I never want to go there again,” he stated, more to himself than his men.
“Have I got bad news for you!” declared a new voice from their rear.
El Gato and the pair of mercenaries pivoted, beginning to level their weapons. But they were already covered.
“Howdy!” said the one in buckskins, beaming, a pearl-handled Colt Python revolver in each hand and trained on the mercenaries. He stood a yard away.
“Hickok!” Cat exclaimed.
Beside the gunman was the third Warrior, a diminutive man dressed in dirty black clothing, a gleaming katana in his hands.
“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”
Hickok said to Cat.
“I am El Gato.”
“The pussycat?” Hickok said. His tone lowered. “Drop the hardware.”
El Gato’s M-16 was slung over his right shoulder. He gripped the strap, about to lower the weapon to the dock.
His men had other ideas. In unison, they attempted to bring their machine guns into play. Both men had only to raise their barrels several inches; both had confidence in their speed and ability; both believed they could beat the Warriors.
Both were mistaken.
Rikki stepped between them, his katana flashing in the sunlight, streaking to the right, then the left, and with each swing the forged steel slashed into a mercenary’s neck, almost severing it.
In the time it took Cat to think, both of his men were dead on their feet, blood spraying over their camouflage uniforms and the dock. Stunned, he scarcely breathed as their forms crumpled into disjointed heaps, their machine guns clattering at their feet.
Hickok wagged his Pythons at El Gato. “Your turn. What’s it gonna be? You can lower your M-16, or Rikki here will demonstrate why he always carves the Family turkey at Thanksgiving.”
Cat lowered the M-16 slowly. Very slowly. His eyes were locked on the crimson-covered, dripping katana.
“Well, it’s nice to see that one of you mangy coyotes has brains,” Hickok remarked. He walked up to El Gato and pressed his Pythons against Cat’s stomach. “Here’s the way it is. We saw our pard being taken on one of these funny boats by those cow chips in the red pajamas. We aim to go after him. You are going to take us.”
Cat opened his mouth to reply.
“Before you say anything,” Hickok cut him off, “there’s something you should know. Rikki and I are plumb tuckered out. We’re tired of being used for target practice by idiots who couldn’t hit a buffalo at two feet with a bazooka. And I’m not in the mood to play footsy with you. So if you don’t agree, right this minute, to take us to our pard, I aim to plug you in the jewels. And if you think I’m kiddin’, I suggest you take a gander at my eyes.”
El Gato gazed at the gunman.
“What will it be?” Hickok prompted.
“I believe you, hombre,” Cat said. “I will take you to your compadre.”
Hickok smiled.
“On one condition,” Cat added.
“No conditions,” Hickok stated.
“I will take you to Blade,” Cat proposed, “if you will permit me to help you once we reach the Shrine.”
Hickok was confused and it showed. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“It is simple. I want to help free your friend.”
“Why?” Hickok asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know if I could make you understand.”
“Try us.”
El Gato looked at both Warriors, then sighed. “Once, years ago, I was a man of reputation. A mercenary, but an honorable mercenary. I did not work for just any pig. I picked my employers. If I believed in their cause, I worked for them. If not, I didn’t.” His lips compressed. “Now all that has changed.”
“You’re tellin’ me,” Hickok said. “Now you’re workin’ for a passel of low-down mutants.”
“Don’t remind me,” El Gato responded, the words barely audible. “I kept telling myself the money was worth it. Even after I saw what the Masters did to one of their Dealers, I deluded myself. I’ve dishonored my profession.” He looked into Hickok’s eyes. “Your friend made me see the light. He made me think of things I have not thought about in a long, long time.”
“Like what?”
“I have five brothers and four sisters,” El Gato disclosed, his voice strained.
Hickok glanced at Rikki.
The martial artist nodded.
“Okay, pussycat,” Hickok said. “We’ll take you at your word for now.
But you don�
�t get a gun until I say so. And I hope, for your sake, you’re not fibbin’ us.”
“He is telling the truth,” Rikki interjected.
“We must hurry,” Cat advised them. “The Directors have a head start.”
“After you,” Hickok directed.
El Gato stepped onto one of the airboats and climbed into the platform chair. “Remove the line.”
Hickok holstered his left Colt and unfastened the tie line. Rikki was busy grabbing the machine guns and the M-16. Both Warriors joined El Gato on the boat.
The gunman glanced over the prow. “This boat is dinkier than I expected. It doesn’t sit very high above the water.”
“So?” Cat said.
“So what happens if we bump into a big snake?”
Chapter Nineteen
“That’s the Shrine?” Blade inquired doubtfully.
“No,” Paolucci answered. “That’s a small island where we dock the airboats.”
Blade scrutinized the few trees dotting the island and the narrow boat dock they were rapidly approaching. The airboat ride was an experience he would never forget. Strung out in a line, with Paolucci’s boat in the lead, the three craft had negotiated the swampy terrain with deceptive ease. Most of the hour spent in transit between Happy Acres and the Shrine had entailed crossing vast plains of sawgrass. The airboats had plowed through the grass at terrific speeds, flattening the blades under the prow, the sawgrass and the wind whipping the boat and its occupants.
Now, as the mercenary steering the craft killed the engine and allowed the airboat to glide up to the dock, Blade devoted his attention, for the umpteenth time, to his primary concern: escaping. He had toyed with the notion of leaping overboard while en route, but the airboat had been moving at such a great speed that he ran the risk of being injured in the attempt. To complicate matters, the mercenary was armed with a machine gun. And although the Directors were not carrying visible weapons, there was no telling what was concealed under their robes.
The three airboats coasted to the dock and the Directors busied themselves with the lines.
“On your feet,” Paolucci ordered the Warrior, rising.
Blade stood. “The Masters must not be here yet,” he mentioned. “I don’t see their airboats.”
“The Masters don’t dock here,” Paolucci divulged. “They have their own dock on the north side of the Shrine.”
“They don’t want to share a dock with lowly humans, huh?” Blade taunted.
“Quit wasting your breath,” Paolucci advised. He stepped onto the dock and beckoned for Blade to join him.
The Warrior complied, his cuffed hands in front of his body.
Paolucci looked at the mercenaries in the platform seats. “You will stay in your boats until we return. Understood?”
The trio nodded.
“Follow me,” Paolucci instructed the giant.
Blade resigned himself to obeying until he could get his bearings and formulate a plan. The twelve other Directors were trailing him as he moved along the dock on Paolucci’s heels. A well-worn path at the end of the dock wound in the direction of a large island 60 yards to the west, an island covered with trees and undergrowth.
“There is the Shrine,” Paolucci declared, nodding at the other island.
“Why is it called the Shrine?”
“What could be more fitting for the site of the sacrifices our Masters make?”
“You’ve never told me,” Blade noted. “Who or what do the Masters sacrifice to?”
“What do you mean?”
“It should be obvious. Do the Masters sacrifice to a deity? Sacrifices are usually made for a reason. What’s theirs?”
“I’ve never asked.”
“You’re despicable.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to comprehend the true meaning of the relationship we share with our Masters,” Paolucci said as they wended their way toward the large island.
“I comprehend, all right,” Blade stated. “You’ve enslaved the human population of southern Florida by fostering mass drug addiction, and all for mutant Masters who must view us as cattle. You’ve sold the human race down the tubes for power and prestige. You deserve to die.”
“How convenient! You’ve set yourself up as our judge and executioner!” Paolucci retorted.
They continued in silence.
Blade stared at the Bowies in Paolucci’s right hand. His life depended on getting those knives back, but timing would be everything. He must wait for the perfect moment. His gaze shifted to the island ahead, and he scrutinized the grove of trees. One consolation, he mentally noted, was that Hickok and Rikki were free. If worse came to worst, they could fly to the Home, call a meeting of the Federation, and lead a combined military force back to Miami to smash the Dragons.
The party reached an incline at the eastern edge of the island, with willows and myrtles on both sides of the trail. They ascended to the crest of the rise. Beyond was a spacious clearing containing granite pedestals and a low marble altar.
And seven waiting figures.
Blade advanced toward the forms, determined not to betray a hint of trepidation. He wouldn’t give the Masters any satisfaction by allowing dread or fear to register on his features. Setting his lips in a thin line, he boldly walked toward the clearing, studying the mutants.
All seven were exceptionally tall, averaging six and a half feet in height.
Each projected an ungainly appearance, enhanced by their disproportionately long limbs; their arms hung below their knees, and their legs, while on normal dimensions from their hips to their knees, were thin poles below the kneecaps. Their skin was a sickly, pale gray, with layers of excess flesh forming pronounced wrinkles on their neck. Four of the mutants were males, three females. The males wore red, skintight shorts, evidently made especially for their bizarre physiques. Red halters and short skirts clothed the females.
“Masters!” Arlo Paolucci called out happily.
One of the mutants came toward him.
Blade received the impression he was watching a skeleton on stilts. The mutant’s stride was peculiar, a rolling sort of gait. He noticed that the Master never straightened its legs as it walked; the knees were always bent. But the strangest aspect of all, one that filled the Warrior with loathing, was the bony visage.
Except for the folds of flesh at the neck, all of the Masters possesed thin, partially transparent, and extremely taut skin. Veins and arteries, even bones, could be seen just under the surface. The result was to transform their countenance into a hideous caricature of a human face. Each Master was hairless, their heads resembling animated skulls. Their eye sockets were deep, darl wells, their nostrils were slits, their lips wafer thin.
“Director One,” said the approaching Master, its voice gravely.
“Master Orm,” Paolucci responded.
The mutant called Orm halted, waiting for them.
As he drew closer, Blade distinguished additional ghastly characteristics. Orm’s rib cage was clearly visible, each rib distinct and seemingly pressing against the skin from within. The mutant’s knuckles were outsized knobs. And when Orm spoke, he revealed a mouth rimmed with pointed, white teeth.
Orm was returning the Warrior’s critical appraisal. “So this is the mighty Blade?” he asked derisively.
Paolucci bowed. “Yes, Master. Delivered as promised.”
“You said there were three Warriors.”
Paolucci, straightening, his hood only half over his head, blanched.
“The other two have not been apprehended.”
Orm looked at Paolucci. “This is most unfortunate. We were expecting you to bring all three.”
“My abject apology, Master.”
“Kiss his feet, why don’t you?” Blade quipped.
Orm cocked his head, his dark eyes flat and cold. “Defiant to the last, I take it.”
“I’m just getting warmed up,” Blade declared.
Orm motioned toward the marble altar and the granite pedestals
.
“Shall we proceed?”
Paolucci nudged the Warrior. “Get moving.”
Blade moved slowly toward the center of the clearing. All of the Masters were watching him intently. The tallest, a mutant who radiated an air of menace, whose expression was baleful, sneered at the Warrior. “Are you the leader of the Masters?” he asked Orm. As he did, Orm stepped past him and he saw one of their backs for the first time.
Orm’s spinal column was a knobby succession of bony protuberances extending from the base of his skull to his waist, each knob progressively bigger than the one above it. The spine curved outward, magnifying the repellent aspect.
Disconcerted by his discovery, Blade abruptly realized the mutant was speaking to him.
“—not the leader of the Masters,” Orm was saying, “so much as I am the head of my Family.”
Blade gazed at the six mutants now six feet off. “This is your family?”
“Yes, Warrior.”
The tallest Master took a stride toward the Warrior. “I am Radnor, bastard!”
Blade stopped and clenched his fists, expecting the Master to attack.
“Radnor!” Orm snapped.
“Let me kill him now, Father,” Radnor said.
“In due time,” Orm responded. He looked at the Warrior. “Radnor is my eldest.”
“One big, happy family,” Blade cracked.
“You cannot judge us by human standards,” Orm stated.
“He has already judged all of us, Master,” Paolucci mentioned. “He believes we deserve to die.”
Radnor, who was the only Master the equal of the Warrior in height, glared into Blade’s gray eyes. “Let me kill him, Father!” he reiterated.
“After we have questioned him,” Orm said.
“You’ll get nothing out of me,” Blade vowed.
“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Orm responded. “There are ways to force you to talk,” he added ominously.
“Give it your best shot,” Blade countered.
Orm sighed. “I was hoping we could conduct our business as reasonable individuals, but if you persist in this obstinacy, we shall commence the skinning.”
“The skinning?”
“Why do you think we instructed Director One to bring your knives?”
Orm asked.
Miami Run Page 17